Mothering

There is paper evidence of her decline. In July, she paid the bills, recorded the checks, marked the bills PAID and filed them. In August, she paid them, recorded the checks and marked the bills PAID. In September, she paid them and barely marked the bills PAID. As the months of summer passed, her handwriting grew wobbly and veiny: written proof of what she was losing. Had I seen this feeble writing instead of her perfect Palmer method cursive, I would have known.

Instead, I found out when we had brunch with her in mid-October, at her invitation, and she admitted she’d fallen the night before and had to call EMS. She was so frail. She proceeded to fall three of the next four nights. We hired help. The help worried. We added hours of help. Her beloved housekeeper Leonor found Mom on the ground the morning of her regular cleaning day, and when I rushed to meet her at the house, we were both in tears: ¿qué le ha pasado? Leonor agreed to stay the night as long as we needed her. Leonor, who calls Mom “mi Dianita.” Leonor, who’d been making her meals and caring for her far more than I’d known.

Over the course of three weeks, we cobbled together 24-hour care. And yet she (we? I?) needed more: more skilled, more consistent, closer to us. I began to look at personal care homes — basically group homes for older people that have some level of nursing and a high level of service.

We found one: a sweet place in our neighborhood, halfway between the office and the house. We see her every day, sometimes more than once a day. It is a miracle this place exists. She is close and cared for, and that feels good.

And yet she’s so far from us. In such a short time, she’s gone from confusion about her September bank statement to not being able to work a phone to being lost about the day’s events and losing words. I can’t reconcile the dragon lady of my childhood with this docile mother I am now mothering. I just can’t.

I am not giving up on her, even though I’m getting little support that there may something acute going on beyond the cruel progress of dementia.

I feel so guilty for all the ways I failed her and am failing her.

And if she wakes up from this fog and sees her hair, which I haven’t had time to get cut and styled amid her many more urgent appointments, she will beat my ass. It’s one of the things I pray for.

At Your Service

Dear Children,

I love you. I made you. I am devoted to you.

And yet.

This is not the White House. While your respective jobs of being awesome 12 and 7-year-old humans and students are super important, you are not running the free world. And you don't have "staff." You have parents.

And today, just one day in the life of this family, one parent or the other (not a staff member)...

...drove carpool, made both your lunches, washed the dance clothes, volunteered at library, came home to find dance clothes still wet, put dance clothes in the laundromat near the office, drove you to get your head re-checked for lice, raced back to the office to deliver the dance shoes mistakenly taken in the car, spared you the horror of gymnastics by letting you hang out at the office, took you to get more dance shoes, drove you to dance class, bought you dinner, stopped at the grocery store to buy your lunch items. Oh, and then did homework and bedtime.

We do a lot for you two. Cut us a little slack.

Sincerely,

The Management

It's Lunch, Okay

Lu got her "expander" yesterday, which is part II of the semi-medieval thing we call braces. As a result, she was suddenly tender-mouthed and rejecting many normal foods. So, at her request, I sent her to school with a can of soup. Not homemade, not even organic. Just sodium-laden, old-fashioned Campbell's.

Only it was the condensed kind. And she was faced with having to try to add water from the water fountain or something humiliating. And then she was rescued by Frank, whose classroom at Kealing is basically a dorm room, complete with microwave, fridge, coffeemaker and more. The price of his saving lunch? Judgment:

Seven is a prime number

Dear Milo,

You are seven today and you are SO BIG. With your short hair and lost teeth and grown-up words. The other day you said to your dad, “Let me be clear: I don’t like quesadillas.” And we laughed when you weren’t looking. But we rewarded your clarity with one of the three remaining dinners you currently eat.

I know it's hard to be little in this family of big personalities. You’ve been along for the ride in the wayback for a while now, where we can barely hear you over our own talking. But I do hear you. You are an incisive observer. You love puns. You hate movies that are scary, or worse, where anyone is too vulnerable or even slightly embarrassed. You are kind. You can entertain yourself at a restaurant with salt and pepper shakers and a fork. You have the most expansive imagination of any person I know.

And you’re magical right now. You’re seven.

With love,

The Management

Evening habit forming?

Oh, here I am again, back after one week. Bet you never thought you'd see me again for another year. Mmm hmm. Back, baby.

I'm back to report that we lived. The week-long record-scratch, summer hangover recovery, fall time-zone adjustment that was this week...is done. And I didn't kill anyone (but Sunday was rough).

And this evening was actually...good. Jason made hamburgers. Milo did piano practice and didn't want to stop. Lu did homework, then interrupted herself to work out the chords to the Beatles' "I Will" — inspired by her generously singing Milo's bedtime music (with ukelele). The night's not done, but some evening harmony and peace was welcome after a hard re-entry. Here's hoping it continues.

First day

For the first first day of Lu's school life, we didn't drive her. I hollered after her as she climbed into the carpool, throwing a  "love you bye" over her shoulder. Milo started first grade with little excitement (screen withdrawal is tough, yo). But he came home chattering about the anatomy of his brain and lost his third tooth (he lost one last year on the first day).

I already appreciate them more, even one day back into regularly scheduled programming.

Back by popular demand

Actually, not popular... rather, the specific demand of one of the stars of this blog. Lu said to me Friday, "Mom, you haven't updated lucyandmilo.com in more than a year!"

She knows. She has read every entry. It's her baby book. It's the story of her life. And it petered out a few years ago (starting when her co-star came on the scene), then abruptly ended. She's right to wonder. I struggled to explain why.

I started with the most immediate explanation, one that she'd understand: Do I want to be posting embarrassing stuff about you? Her answer: "No, but still..."

I have been thinking over the last few days about why, and I think I have some elaboration on the "let's not embarrass Lu" rationale, though I am committed to maintaining her privacy.

The big reason: we have emerged from the urgency of early childhood. All those tiny triumphs and failures of parenting (food, sleep, behavior) could be contained in mere posts. Our family was easier and harder, but simpler.

Life with one big and one little-ish...do I write two blogs? Each dedicated to the observations of its child? Theirs? Ours? Mine?

With this, I rededicate myself to this blog, if only (and really only) to help my kids make sense of the stories of their lives. And also to complain about them.

Oh hi.

As I type this, we are watching the Lego documentary and Lu is reconsidering dreams of Broadway for life as a Lego master builder. Milo is asleep in a newly reorganized room, having picked out his own pajamas from a drawer within his reach.

Jason and I are tired, from building the business and weighing huge opportunities that have landed in our lap in the last week — inconveniently timed good luck.

We are also tired from 8 weeks of helping my mom recover from a devastating hip injury in various hospital settings...then helping my dad during a dramatic psychiatric hospitalization.

Oh, and we are getting a dog on Sunday (because we need one more creature look after).

At some point soon, I will fill in the detail. For now, I am just reporting the facts. I don't know what the hell is happening: life is incredibly complicated and hard, and still so good.

Club Kids

Lu is in the thick of pre-pubescent social sorting, and, bless her, she is finding (or feeling) herself on the outside. There are the Coder Girls, anointed by the technology teacher, against what rubric and serving what mission, I have no idea. I only know her sadness about seeing herself on the outside. Most recently there's the Ladybug Club, which Lu was either tacitly or explicitly excluded from...because she may or may not have accidentally killed original ladybug "Fat Genius." Not since Biggie's death has there been such a scandal. 

Part of me wants to say, "Kid, these are the character years. This suffering and humiliation makes you who you are! Jane Austen was NEVER cool. And you know Judd Apatow wasn't. David Foster Wallace is dead. Shrek?! This outsider narrative is going to serve you well."

Then this other super-healthy tack: "Oh, babe, I had it way worse. I ate lunch in the restroom for the better part of sixth grade. You're doing great."

But what does a non-striving, non-projecting, well-adjusted parent (ahem, me?) say to her extroverted, confident, well-adjusted, isolated, questioning child? I have no idea. Well, I have an idea, when it's an academic exercise, but when it's heartfelt pillow talk...what I REALLY REALLY wanted to say was a bunch of shitty, insulting, protective/defensive things, but I didn't. Somehow.

Tonight, I went with:

I love you. You are an amazing human being.

I've been there. Feeling like you're on the outside is a very powerful and sad emotion, and I know it well. I survived, and you will, too.

I will snap the heads off your enemies. Name them. Their academic and career prospects will be limited with their heads so far from their bodies. (This is our running joke, but I. will. do. it.)

We have been having versions of this same conversation for days. And we will have it so many more (I hope). I love that she wants to have it.

Admissions

When I was preparing for middle school, the big questions in my mind were:

• "The girls from the other elementaries seem so old and big, and a few of them look like they have boobs. Will I have boobs? Do I right now? Can you see these?"
• "Does this mean no more Barbies?"
• "Do I have to shave my legs?"
• "I heard they have a salad bar and a hamburger bar and then a regular lunch line. How does it work? How will I choose?"

As Lu is preparing for middle school, she is sorting through her own form of the above, but also having to make choices about where she will go. With questions like the ones I had about college:

• Should I go someplace artsy and interesting (and expensive)?
• Should I go to the big public school where all my friends are going and will be easy and cheap and good enough?
• Should I aim for the hard nerdy school where I see my tribe, but also see challenges (and have the toughest chance of getting in)?

She has now done more to get into middle school than I did to get into the University of Texas. Granted, the UT bar was low at the time, but this is a hell of a lot of work and consideration for middle school.